The Hanging Tree
by Ayoshen
Summary: Regina has pictured her reign ending many ways, but not this one. Not with her having to kill Emma. Unfortunately for her, Emma doesn't know the effect she can have. A Swan Queen songfic based on The Hanging Tree song from The Hunger Games.
1. The Hanging Tree

**A/N:** I don't know if it's "allowed" for you to mix two songs in a songfic and care I do not. I couldn't decide between these two songs, both inspired by The Hunger Games trilogy, which is an absolutely amazing, glorious, fantastic thing that has been rocking my world for the past two weeks or so and filling an infinite number of buckets with my tears. So... I guess this is one of those versions of a season finale I've come up with.

I'm still not a native English speaker and the lyrics belong to Suzanne Collins (The Hanging Tree) and Arshad (Girl on Fire), respectively. Listen to these songs as you read for best effect. #true story

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><p><em>Are you, are you<br>Coming to the tree  
>Where they strung up a man they say murdered three?<em>

I never imagined it would end like this. Indubitably the first time Mr. Gold addressed me by my full title, I knew we had strayed away from our vicious little cycle and that this was bound to end somehow, soon. Were it at any other time, I would have shrugged the hint off and stayed on track. But it happened then, with her in town, Kathryn running off, and ultimately every other area of everyone's lives I had control over slipping away from me.

_Strange things did happen here  
>No stranger would it be<br>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

So instead of a sneer and glasses of apple cider, I began picturing the end. (Alright, maybe apple cider remained involved in the process.) Somehow, it was always me kneeling at the mercy of Snow White and her precious prince, who wouldn't have the heart to set an example out of me and would instead let me roam freely and aimlessly throughout the lands to face everyone's fury on my own. Me with a gun barrel pressed into my jaw until it would bleed, perhaps even breaking my neck along the way. Me given as tribute to the siren from whom I'd stolen countless times for my purposes. Me standing tied and mute before Gold with no Belle to hold him back or persuade him into making it quick.

It was never me killing her, neither in my dreams nor in my nightmares.

_Are you, are you  
>Coming to the tree<br>Where the dead man called out for his love to flee?_

I have to shake my head because I feel dizzy and for a brief moment can't separate the past from the present. The déja vu is almost like a dreamy flashback – like I'm watching it through my eyes again, knowing what will happen, but I can't alter what's being said and done.

"Come to finally settle the score between us, have you?" I said, leaning against my honeycrisp apple tree. I threw an apple up in the air and caught it with my other hand, my eyes fixed on it the whole time. I'd expected her. In fact, I'd been here since way before the sun started to set.

She looked like she was in a haste, and the inconspicuous frown that appeared on her forehead milliseconds before she spoke up – those milliseconds adding to a fleeting, but long enough moment of hesitation – told me she wasn't entirely sure what she was doing herself. "Listen, you need to run. Get away from here. As far away from here as possible."

_Strange things did happen here  
>No stranger would it be<br>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

"Excuse me?" I couldn't believe my own eyes and ears. The one whom I had expected to deliver the final blow – the savior – was asking me to run.

And then I found myself pinned to the tree bark as the apple rolled across the lawn. She had my arms in an iron grip and the urgency with which she looked at me seemed almost bordering on madness. Looking back on it now, perhaps it was. It was then that our eyes actually met for the first time that night, and once they did, they stayed connected.

_Are you, are you  
>Coming to the tree<br>Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free?_

"You don't have much time. You have no idea what they'd do to you, and for that matter, neither do I. What I do know is that I don't want to be here to find out," she said and it was as if I was speaking to a completely different person than I had known – or thought I had – before the war started. In a matter of seconds, Emma Swan grew up. More than she had in the past twenty eight years.

"I don't run. As you would put it, it's 'not my style', you see."

I made her lose patience with me. "You don't run when you have magic to counterattack. When you don't have magic, you have your cunning. But here, Regina, you don't have _anything_ anymore. You can't defend yourself by playing on their feelings, because they don't have any when it comes to you. They will execute you like a pig for slaughter, so for one time in your whole life, just this once, suck up that ego of yours, listen to me and run. Run until your feet bleed and _never, ever look back._"

It wasn't her words that convinced me of her intentions; it was the tone of her voice. How she didn't yell or even go above a whisper. It was quiet, secret, forbidden, wrong and painfully honest, but it wasn't these attributes that made me change my mind. It was the fear I didn't understand.

_Strange things did happen here  
>No stranger would it be<br>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

She was still gripping me. I think it was partly because she still hadn't fully decided to let me go. A part of her wanted to carry out what she had originally come for. As if her hands lacked the capacity to understand what her head had known ages ago.

"Why would you help me, of all people?" I mumbled, confused.

"Oh, you know what they say, how I'm the savior and all. Saviors save. It's in the job description. One would think you've checked or at least caught a glimpse when you were going through my résumé for the umpteenth time." She'd backed off and was now smirking in that signature way of hers, and I knew that she had become the real Emma again. The immature, sarcastic, cynical, clueless but critical piece of the puzzle. Almost shrinking in my eyes.

"I don't owe you anything," I shot back.

And then I ran, refusing to admit she was anything more than that.

_Are you, are you  
>Coming to the tree<br>Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me_

But I didn't get far, alone, unarmed and helpless. I should have listened to her earlier. I didn't know I would pay for my mistake in blood ten times over. They dragged me back and for a split second, I thought she was going to kill me herself, judging by the glare she threw my way before it was replaced by that same mad expression I had seen once before. While everyone else was busy arguing loudly and without order about how I should meet my fate, she cut the rope and got me to temporary safety. As it turned out, the war wasn't over yet; Emma was on my side. So was Henry, as I allowed myself to admit when I blocked the fact that they dragged him into this out of my mind. And Maleficent, who would no doubt turn on me the second things calmed down again, which I was grateful for; it had always worked like that between us. There was Marco, old and weary of war and too moral for his own good. And, to my surprise, there was Kathryn. I guess I did treat her better than most.

But in the end, it was Emma who stood side by side with me. It was Emma who threw herself in front of me to block not one, but two bullets that were meant for me.

I vaguely remember screaming at them to get Henry away from here as she collapsed to the ground under this very tree like a house of cards.

_Strange things did happen here  
>No stranger would it be<br>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

It's a pandemonium. Mary is screaming and David has to hold her so that she doesn't run towards us and right into the shooting range. She's reaching her hand out, wanting nothing but to hold her daughter and mental images of what would happen if I were her and Henry were Emma run through my mind. Everyone's either staring dumbfounded like a herd of sheep or trying to identify the shooter or just screaming out of some paranoid fear of being the next target, even though that makes no logical sense. In the middle of it all, all I can see is Mary, only now beginning to trust me because she doesn't have any other choice. Her pleading eyes tell me what she wants me to do. I know what I want to do.

I kneel and scoop her up just enough to lift her upper body on my lap. I want to tell her she's a complete idiot. To let it be known that I couldn't be more disappointed in her if I tried. Yet somehow, the only words that come out of my mouth are "I don't believe you."

She grins in response, blood escaping the corner of her mouth. "It's in – my job description."

_They don't own me  
>I'm not a piece in their game<br>Can't control me  
>They're the only ones to be blamed<em>

All the noise, all the screams and gasps and wails are trying to get to us, but we're in a circle of dull silence, surrounded by a thick border that makes everything ring and echo in my ears as if we were underwater, so I can't really understand any part of what is happening.

"That's enough!" Marco yells outside of our little bubble and it's the first time any citizen of Storybrooke can see him truly angry.

I can tell she's trying to keep her eyes open and focus on me. I don't know why; I know I definitely wouldn't want me to be the last thing I see in this life. I blame it on the pain clouding her judgement. It must be immense, because she's shaking and crying and the salty liquid is mixing with the puddle of blood on the ground. As I'm cradling her, I realize seeing her suffer is different. All the other people I've watched as they died were trying desperately to escape the clutches of death until their final breath. Emma is the first one to suffer _for_ me, not _because of_ me. Why?

I had almost forgotten what it felt like, having my vision blurred by tears. The apple I dropped that night is lying at the exact same spot, just a few feet from me.

_ Notice me  
>'Cause I've been here all along<br>I've been waiting  
>Since you sang me your song<em>

And then it hits me that this was the means to end the game, to break the curse. It's always been this way or nothing. I'm not sure Emma knows. As far as I'm concerned, Emma stopped caring about the curse long ago, when she was asked to pick a side and refused, even though out loud, she might have said _'good'_.

I reach for the apple and hold it close to her lips. "Here," I say and my voice breaks. However, I know I'm not expected to explain. Not to mention an explanation would be redundant in this case. She already knows what I would say.

_And now our star-crossed love has materialized  
>We've locked our fate right here, right now<em>

She can't resist an offer to escape. Yes, it would come sooner or later, but given how much pain she's in right now, later sounds like centuries of agonizing torture. So her eyes thank me when blood and color have seeped from her lips.

One bite is all it takes.

"You're an idiot," I finally say, or more like half-whisper because I can't keep my voice steady no matter how hard I try. I can feel her muscles relax in my arms almost immediately.

It seems only fitting. Evil queens don't get happy endings. They kill theirs before the tales even begin. From that point of view, it took me excruciatingly long to live up to my designated position.

_She doesn't know the effect she can have_

The bubble has burst, but there is no noise. No screaming, no yelling. Only the occassional sobs – I can't tell which belong to me and which come from the crowd – and Henry's heart beating fast back in the house. My jaw clenches and I shoot a furious glare at Mary and David, whom I will forever blame and resent and loathe on all possible levels – if I can still feel when this is over – and they know it. I look their way because I can't stand the sight of her blonde locks dyed red and the blood on my hands anymore. They don't understand what this means; how history is repeating itself as we stand here and try to numb our senses. They also know my rage will stay bottled up this time, truly and forever.

Anger is replaced by shame and regret on the faces of all of these spectators, like Romans in the Colosseum, realizing people are dying for their entertainment when it's already too late. Some want to come closer, but I growl at them, and that is enough to keep them at bay.

_'Cause this love is not a game to me_

She is the savior, alright. The war is over. We just needed a martyr to show us how wrong we've all been, show us what Marco and possibly Emma herself had known since the start. All that nonsense about studying history so we can learn from it is but mere words repeated since the beginning of time by certified scholars that can never be put to practice. No one ever has time for comparisons when it comes to killing.

I lean in and press my lips to hers while they're still warm. It's the only form of _thank you_ I could ever muster up, and not nearly as powerful as I'd want it to be.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Rumplestiltskin retreating into the shadows and Belle glancing my way with a conflicted, pained expression before following close behind, knowing that the four – three of us are now even. Their idea of even, anyway.

__Strange things did happen here  
>No stranger would it be<br>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.__


	2. Safe and Sound

**Author's Quite Important Note:** This could as well be a separate story if you squint, but for the sake of endless procrastination (whoops, look, it's 11PM!), I felt like continuing yesterday's oneshot. This is it, however. Includes an F-bomb or two and is not in any way more cheerful than The Hanging Tree. Based on another song related to the Hunger Games - Taylor Swift's "Safe and Sound".

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Safe and Sound<strong>

_I remember tears streaming down your face  
>When I said I'd never let you go<br>When all those shadows almost killed your light_

It's been some time since the day the curse was broken, taking all its children with it to oblivion. To be honest, I don't know how long it's been exactly. At first minutes and hours, then days and months blurred into one big mess of menial tasks and insignificant conversations about why Emma did this, why Emma did that, most of which were not even shared with me – I was just unfortunate enough to overhear. Perhaps they think my brain can't process any new information since the moment they had to tear me away from her. I had no idea I was holding on so tightly my nails dug holes and scratches in her jacket.

I remember her blood was just a tint lighter shade of red, a little like my drink. Bloody Mary. I've spent countless nights chuckling at the name, unable to decide which part is more ironic.

And when they did pull me away and block my view, I felt lightheaded, like some part of me never truly let go. And it never would.

_I remember you said, "Don't leave me here alone"  
>But all that's dead and gone and past<br>Tonight_

They took Henry away from me, too. Something about him not being able to stay with me in this condition. Something about drinking too much. The sad thing is, I'm fully aware of mine and Henry's condition. I can pretend this is not my twentieth drink and that Red's not throwing a slightly concerned glance my way every time I gobble up the contents of the glass and that she doesn't always return to dirty-talking with her lover – one she got to keep – but I know everything and no matter how much I drink, I still can't forget.

I always leave after Henry's fallen asleep. If anyone expected any kind of bonding to happen in the house, well, they couldn't have been farther from the truth. I can't go near him. Surely he hates me ten times more than he did before. I'm convinced he blames me for Emma's death, because then again, who doesn't? So I leave even though I know he's having nightmares and become deaf to his cries in my ears and lock what's left of my heart in a silver chest so that it can never get out.

One time, he had had a dream about Emma being locked up in a dungeon in hell with all the vengeful spirits of the dead tearing her apart limb by limb for every person in whose way she stood. He must have known all along, because he found me sometime between my second and third wine run. (I always point to the bottle of 1999 Beaujolais before Red can even greet me.)

He just sat next to me, with his book in his lap, lighter than before because pages had been torn and ripped out.

I didn't see him for a while after that.

_Don't you dare look out your window  
>Darling, everything's on fire<br>The war outside our door keeps raging on_

"That's enough, Regina."

I instantly remember Marco yelling in the face of Storybrooke and letting us know we've crossed a line we can't traverse back again. I growl as I see _Mary fucking Margaret,_ or Snow White, or whatever the hell I should call her now, of all people, snatching the glass from my hands. Unlike me, she can very much stand upright and looks supremely unruffled, which leads me to believe it's been at least several months. The difference here is that she has a prince to pull her through.

"Go to hell," I snarl, my exquisite manners having left about two hours ago. I'm reaching to get back what I paid for, but I find my aiming is lacking severely tonight. Then I briefly recall Henry telling me about the dream, trying to get me to listen, and for a second I think that Mary would be of good use in hell right now and almost mean what I said. Not like I believe in things like that.

"He misses you."

"No, he doesn't. He misses Emma."

If I were able to focus on anything besides trying to keep my head from spinning, perhaps some remote part of my consciousness would come to the conclusion that it's me who misses Emma the most in this room. Like that would ever be possible, especially since my heart's been trapped in the convenient silver chest. And frankly, I don't care what's going on inside it.

If I were really thinking this, our minds would be in synch, it seems, because the next thing she says feels like a stab in my lungs.

"So do you."

_Hold onto this lullaby  
>Even when the music's gone<br>Gone_

"I never thanked you for how you acted back there. You… eased her pain," she continues.

She's missing the point entirely. I haven't been getting periodically inebriated to etch the event into my memory. And I'm positive I never wanted to hear about _her_ fucking feelings.

Let's try to ignore her by overwriting whatever she says with another memory instead. Let's see what I can think of. Emma arriving in town. Emma finding Henry at the castle and bringing him back to me. Emma volunteering to save him in the mine. Emma coming to talk to me about how Henry found out he was born in jail. Emma taking my hand in the fire. Emma walking to the door with the number 108 written on them in shiny numbers. Emma breathing with no difficulty. Emma in a puddle of—

"She's not coming back, is she?" I say, frozen on the spot as the realization hits me like an anvil in the head.

"No."

_Just close your eyes  
>The sun is going down<br>You'll be alright  
>No one can hurt you now<em>

The bullets were never meant for me. They were for her all along, just to get me where I am now. In a brief moment of clarity, it dawns on me, and the witch part in me has to admire the meticulousness of his plan. It was really quite clever, so clever that I am too dumbstruck to hate.

"Go home, Snow," I whisper huskily and make no effort to wipe the tears from my face. I barely see them, really. It's not like my vision is any clearer when they're not there, so who cares if they smear my eyeliner. Or maybe they're not even there.

She obeys me just to try again tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that. Maybe one day I'll stop wishing she let them hit the mark. Maybe one day I'll be able to comprehend what she did. Or even better, maybe one day, I'll finally wake up with no knowledge of the past twenty eight years.

Until then, I could as well stay right where I am.

_Come morning light,  
>you and I'll be safe<br>and  
>sound.<em>


	3. The Lullaby

**Author's Note:** Fine, fine, fic, stop nagging, yes you are getting another chapter, get off! Phew. I'm officially this fic's bitch, for lack of a better term. Sometimes they just grow on you. I still haven't decided whether this is the last chapter or not. Granted, it's not as tragic as the other two. Pinky swear. :)

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: The Lullaby<strong>

It's been twelve months since the shooting – which I refuse to refer to in any other way – and we're coping. Henry's back and I might even believe he doesn't resent me as much as I thought he no doubt would. The process is taking its time, but he's starting to forgive me. For everything. Maybe it's because I'm trying now. To speed it up, we visit Emma's grave every Sunday at precisely 3 PM before I have to attend to other duties. I would never go, but he insisted we make this a routine obligation.

When we get there, he always has a speech prepared about the events of the week. About who stole his lunch, how I got back at them, how he's made a new friend in school, how he's not doing well in physics but Emma would be proud of the rest of his results. Even if I believed the dead could hear, I wouldn't say anything. I have nothing to say. Still, when he's done, he has a bothersome habit of glaring at me until I break and share a sentence or two. I never make it complicated; I say simple things like "Hope they have a special cloud for meaningless, moronic self-sacrifices," or "Aren't you getting bored of comparing heroic deeds with the other angels?" Henry smiles. He thinks it's good enough and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes. I stay mute for the rest of the visit.

I haven't seen or been paying attention to Mary Margaret or David (I decided these names evoke less pain than their alternatives) in ages – I don't exactly go looking around for them and Henry doesn't make me, that much is certain – so it comes as a surprise when I hear Mary's given birth to a baby. Well, that didn't take long. Apparently, I'm also invited to some sort of party as soon as she's released from the hospital. I have no illusions about what's behind said invitation; I'm sure no one wanted me there, but Mary insisted I couldn't be left out, being blinded by the pain that I might describe as our common ground if I were drunk enough – but I'm not going down that road again.

I don't speak with anyone or as much as mutter a half-hearted greeting throughout the evening, until the mother herself appears, holding a bundle of white and purple covers close to her chest. It's sleeping and she lets us all see it. I have no intention of swooning over her next drooling spawn until she speaks.

"We named her Emma, after her big sister," she says with a sad smile.

It feels like my entire skeleton has turned to stone, my fists clench and my mouth goes dry. The sky darkens outside the window and a wave of thick black clouds nears the house in a raging hurricane, just like it did when I enacted the curse that took everything from me the first time, fueled by whatever it was that I locked up and tied down when _it_ happened. People panic. Red clings to her grandma like a sick child. Ella grows so pale even Mary doesn't stand a chance. Nothing has changed in this town. Somewhere in the distance, Henry screams, but I can't hear. Cracks appear in the glass of the windows and in the ceiling, one by one.

"_How dare you,"_ I say and the growl is punctuated by a particularly loud thunder. Can't say I didn't plan that.

To be completely honest, I had no idea I was doing that, but when a moment occurs in which I register anything else besides terrifying, obliterating anger, I see I've managed to freeze everyone on the spot. Not the natural way when something bad is happening and you can't urge your body to move, but the magical way, so they can only stare, frightened, as I take a step towards the infant, and then another, with the sole intention to murder it. It wakes up when it senses my plan. Everyone can see. Everyone knows exactly what I'm about to do. And I couldn't care less.

It's its eyes. The same bluish green that suggests a rainy pine tree forest in fall and reminds me I made an unbreakable promise.

It's Emma.

Past all caring and completely disregarding the consequences, I storm out, not calm by a longshot but still regal, and then I run. Run until my feet bleed and never, ever look back.

I run as far as my legs can take me, planning my next move. By the time I reach a clearing in the woods, it's settled. I waste no time; it takes all that's left of my being but I close my eyes, mutter a few incantations, and when I open them again, I'm standing in the shadow of a leafy tree crown in the middle of a tiny island in a pond of water lilies. I've subconsciously created an apple tree, I see. No matter. There will be no room for sentiment once I'm done, I think as my fingers claw and dig deep into my own chest until they come out ensnaring the pulsating ball of muscles that is my heart, the only thing that still holds something precious to me. I don't need one, anyway.

I destroy it, crush it like so many others that went still by my hands, and let it burn in a cursed fire. This one is not as strong, but then again, this time I aim to curse only myself. For that purpose, it works remarkably well.

I respect Emma enough not to waste what she's given me, but I can't make any use of it here and now. I will wait, frozen in time forever if I have to, and begin anew, when the present has turned to dust and ashes. I'm already growing lethargic and my only goal becomes to _wait_. So I do.

At first there's emptiness as if something were missing, a piece of a puzzle; over time, even that anxiety fades and all that's left is a shell. Minutes turn to hours, hours to days, days to months and months to years. I've been drawing lines on the tree bark for each day I've spent here. It stopped being just a way to mark my life several years ago, when I realized I was drawing a picture. Now, if I circle the tree, the lines and dots seem to be forming some kind of animal. An elegant bird with large wings folded along the length of its body, long neck in the shape of an S and black eyes like buttons on a winter cloak. I've never seen anything like it. I go back to sleep, awaiting another day. The water the bird is swimming in needs more detailed ripples.

"Nice place you got here, though I expected something more… pompous. Glossy. The stuff castles are made of."

I raise my head and stand up to face a young woman with blonde wavy hair and the posture of a street thug, hands in pockets and hunched forward ever so slightly.

I doubt I still remember how to speak but I try. "Who are you?"

"My name is Emma," she says, raising her hands in a gesture to show me she is unarmed. I see why that would be necessary; she hasn't given me a reason to hurt her yet. Neither has she given me a reason not to.

"I hear someone needs a curse-breaker around these parts. Got any idea where I might find them?" she asks with a playful smile decorating her face.

Suddenly, the name rings a bell somewhere deep down. "Emma." The connection between her and birds becomes clear. She's like a phoenix and she's risen from the ashes. How do I deal with such a flaw in my plan? What am I even waiting for?

We stand there, just looking at each other as I take in those endlessly familiar bluish emerald eyes. The reason I can't come up with a suitable reaction is because something old and forgotten is awakening inside of me and I don't know how to handle it. It reminds me of when I was a little girl and I was trying to transform a golden cup into a butterfly. Instead the spell backfired and I created a scorpion, and it stung me.

Eventually, after what feels like a century, the wall crumbles. "I thought you were gone."

"Well, yeah, I was, but a funny thing happened; when I flew up to the gates of heaven and I met this guy – Saint Peter I think it was – I changed my mind and I said 'You know what, screw this. I'm going home.'"

The odd high-pitched, desultory sound that comes out of my throat startles me at first, but then I realize that the unthinkable has happened. I laughed. For possibly the first time in decades. "Shoot first, think second, right, Miss Swan? You could have at least asked for directions or a map first. Maybe you wouldn't have taken so long."

"That was twenty eight years ago. Yeah, for a second I was worried I wouldn't find you in time. Especially when you looked like you were about to strangle me on the spot."

And I'm broken. I'm a broken piece of clockwork. The next thing I know, I'm a sobbing mess in her arms, clinging to her crimson jacket for dear life and mumbling her name over and over and over for all the times in the past twenty eight years I should have said it but couldn't make a sound, and then for all the time before that that I did, and then for all the times Henry did in his sleep. By the time I'm done, there's not a speck of past left in me. Good. One less thing to trouble my conscience.

Gently stroking my hair, she takes a deep breath. "Wow. I have a hunch someone's missed me a lot." She sounds genuinely impressed.

"You're not entirely disposable, but don't flatter yourself."

I can feel her chuckle vibrate behind my ear because we both know she has every right to flatter herself. I think of how she must have crossed the pond to get to me but there are no traces of water on her clothes. And then I reflect on what lies behind the water. "I'm sorry," comes the broken whisper.

"Hey, don't apologize to me. I think Henry's still a little grumpy. Speaking of which, Grumpy's a member of the council now. Please let me know before you go on a killing spree so I can take precautions."

My brain only registers one word. "Henry?"

"Let's just say you're going to find out how my mom felt." She pauses. "Without wishing to spoil the moment, there's something I need to do."

I pull away just enough to be able to look her in the eye, confused. Since I can't imagine what could possibly be more important than to breathe the same air right now, her point eludes me and her smile is baffling. I only begin to understand when the reason I've waited here all this time comes true; she's kissing me. Fifty six years summed up in one kiss people are already labeling, but this is not good and evil. This is not past and present. This is not love and hate. I'm back in Storybrooke, back in the moment when I put both of us to sleep. Her lips graze with tenderness that implies the caress of a swan's feather and plant an irrational, oxymoronic fear that I might shatter in my mind. However, I stay intact – perhaps more complete than ever – and I don't pull away either because I've figured out what she's doing.

She's finally breaking the curse. She's waking us up.

_Come morning light,  
>you and I'll be safe<br>and  
>sound.<em>


End file.
